Page 12

My heart twists at the sight of my favorite photo—proof that Isabella Russo once existed as a woman, not just a legend.
“What of it?” I step closer to my bed, careful to maintain distance as I scan the chaos. All the photos of my mother with this mystery woman have been sorted into a neat pile. Whatever he wants connects to her.
“Do you know this woman?”
“That’s my mother.”
“I know. Isabella Russo. La Falciante.” His casual mention of her code name sends ice through my veins. “I mean the woman she’s with.”
I shake my head, words failing me as the ground shifts beneath me.
“That’s my mother, Sofia. God Bless her soul.”
His mother? My mind races, struggling to process this connection. Our mother’s friends? Is this some elaborate setup?
“Who are you?” I whisper, my hands—trained to remain steady since childhood—now betraying me with the slightest tremor.
“Ouch,” he purrs with mocking hurt. “I’m Dominic, Alessa. Dominic Gianelli.”
The name slams into me like a physical blow. Gianelli. One of the four families. The very world I’ve spent my adult life running from is standing in my bedroom, wearing the face of the man who once made me forget my own name.
“Now, now,” he chides, noticing my shock. “Don’t look so afraid or you’re going to offend me.”
“What do you want?” I straighten my spine, grip tightening on the gun as my arms begin to ache.
“First and foremost, I want the gun you stole from me, little thief.”
“Mymother’s gun,“ she quips. “You waited four years to come for it?”
Mine now.
If I had known he was Gianelli blood, I’d never have let him touch me that night.
“Four years and two months,” he corrects with infuriating precision. “But who’s counting? She gave it to me. Now, where the fuck is it?”
“I’m not giving it to you. It’s mine.”
Dominic scoffs, shaking his head like I’m a child, refusing to share a toy.
“Look, Alessa. I don’t have all day.So, hand over what’s mine, and maybe I won’t have to drag you out of here kicking and screaming. Uh-huh,” he nods as casually as if suggesting lunch.
“You’re out of your goddamn mind.”
“Well, not yet,” he answers, amusement evaporating from his eyes.
A growl rumbles from his chest.“Where thefuckis my gun?”
“No. I’m not telling you shit,” I hiss, my teeth clenched. “It’smymother’s. It’s mine.”
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way... I’m fine with either. Now don’t make me ask again.”
Terror claws up my throat, but stubbornness—my father calls it the Russo curse—locks my jaw. That gun is one of the few connections I have to my mother. To who she really was.
“You’re not getting it, Dominic.”
“Fine,” he sneers, advancing toward me. I retreat instinctively, gun still aimed at his chest. My breath comes in shallow gasps, heart pounding so loud it drowns out all thought.
I need to run. Now.